Role

Chapter 4

A scribe now, but I act as if I already an
Acolyte. Always offering my services to the
Squires and Maran's in hopes their path is
true, and remaining steadfast; I value the
work they do. Walking the Halls of the
Maran I notice not too far the Forge of the
Light; some consider it the single most
known tool of the dwarves; at least those
that make weapons exceptional. Instinctively
attracted to it, I ran my hands about the
freezing Anvil.


Brushing away the flakes of the season, I
drift into a trance of somekind, a dazing
day-dream.

The dream I observe a dark room, the smell
of molting lava and burning mithril. The
clashing of hard iron; overshadowed by a
blinding white light. I could now seen a
black surfaced anvil, polished and coated
with a smooth mithril foundation. A large
arm, bulging with massive strength. Another
slam from an enormous hammer striking a
sword laid bare on the anvil.

The strikes continue and they become even
louder with each swing. The snow flakes
seem to evaporate in thin air as flickers
of metal sparks flare wildly about the
room. There I notice it!

It was not the metals of the hammer or the
forging sword, but the Gauntlets about
the blacksmith hands. With each swing they
seem to glow; with a surge of power being
added for every strike. The gauntlets are
made of mithril with stones in place of
where the knuckles are. Each gem is of a
different color; un-natural in all aspects.

Paying closer attention, before waking up
abrutly by the sound of a Squire asking me
to help him in Mortan, I see the flaring
of words; GoldFistz.

Surely, I must go to Morton to assess this
dream, nothing is by coincidence for all
things are Fate.